Category Archives: poem


There are things
I could say
There are things
I don’t
And things I should
And things I won’t

There would be no difference
These words never will change
How you feel
And even if they did
After all this time
I know it wouldn’t be real

You love her
You hate her
The very mention of her
Sends you into so many emotions
It has been a year
Still you cannot shake her
I have never seen you in this place before

You, the one quick to make fun
The one rarely serious
Willing to give up
For her

I love you
But you do not
Love me as much as
Half of the love
You still feel for her

So watch me
Encourage you
To find someone new
To get out in the world
To be happy

While I know
I can never change your feelings
And allow you to forget her
I can never earn after eight years
the same trust
You have given her
In a matter of months

Group Projects

“Okay class, it is now time for your end of year projects. Groups of 2 to 4 please”


I look around the room

I ask the first person

That I see

That I am on somewhat good terms with

partners? I ask

She already has a group

She does not invite me to this group

That group is everyone else I would have asked

There is no one left

but me


I beg myself into a group

where people pity me

into a project I have no interest in

I wish I could be on my own

I wish I had someone that I could work with


What is the point

of these stupid projects anyways?

The teacher would have taught it

if it was important

and if it is not important

why am I using my time on it

when I should be studying

when I should be happy

instead of stressing over another deadline

another time commitment


It wouldn’t be bad

if there was a reason for it

besides to fill the time

It wouldn’t be bad

if I had friends in this class

it might even be fun

It wouldn’t be bad

if the subject my group picked

wasn’t so


or if we were going to present it

in a fun way

and not in a way

that would entertain 5 year olds

and bore 5 year olds

at the same time

It is fine

I suppose


It will happen and that will be that

but I hate the uncomfortable feeling

of being at the house of some one

I barely know

working with people

that have taken pity on me

and allowed me to join them

but not really

because the whole time

I won’t really be one of them

I won’t really have a say

They are a group

They stay together

I am merely passing through

and I will not be allowed

to interrupt them






The rain hits the window

it shakes the roof above me

as I look out

on to the street

it is all quiet


A man with an umbrella

walks on the sidewalk underneath me

Each step feels purposeful

but none are quick nor eager

He simply walks in the rain

it is all quiet


In another room

my dog barks as thunder breaks overhead

The door to my sister’s room creaks

She wraps the dog up in a blanket

repeating calming words

it is all quiet


Someone yells at the rain

In my mind’s eye

I can see them

Twirling with arms stretched out

letting go of everything

but I am in my room

it is all quiet







Silent Blogs

They sit there



waiting for what?

For words to cross their screen

For words to mean something again

But they just sit there


not even with a goodbye

their writer just left

in the middle of



The letter

They say the pain lessens

Sarah knows better

She writes

and rewrites the letter


A piece of paper no one will receive

a note too soon forgotten

just the same

so was she


Crumpled paper

thrown in the trash

tissues pile on

Nothing’s the same

Now that her friend is gone


Regrets and reflection

From so long ago

on Sarah’s face

they show


Sarah be brave

they can’t know


They say the pain lessons

but Sarah knows better

she rests her head

as the room gets wetter


The van rumbled up, the gravel hit the side. She took a deep breath. Her lips parted into a smile. Home, finally she was home. The van’s door was thrown open and everyone ran out onto the bridge. Their hollowed footsteps took her back to the snow, falling, losing her boot, getting back up with a wild smile and going down to eat spaghetti. The sweet smell of clover brought her back as they turned. On her left  flags waved brilliantly, next a garden of rocks, out behind they called this small valley the friendship bowl and to it’s right was a disappearing circle of pine. She had been there when most of the trees still stood tall and proud surrounding the fire. Moccasins danced around the flame, family, friendship, freedom.  That was gone like the trees, but some of it is clung to this place. She cried when her eyes fell on the stump. She remembered the tree that once stood there. The worn trunk that had shaped to the foot, the smooth branch that she had hung on like a sloth, until finally swinging her leg over the top and traveling to her spot. No one else sat there-claimed it was too uncomfortable, but for her it was just right. She could sit, two loops and weave through. Sometimes she would look up and watch first base, the totem pole. Sometimes she would join the game. A hundred years changes a place. She saw the change in ten. But it was still there, the magic. Not having enemies or worrying about what people think of you. This place was special. Untainted by age. Everyone was part of it, the magic.  Somehow no one in this place had left their childhood behind. They were still young, there was good there was bad, no shade of grey. They didn’t care if an eighteen year old liked pokemon, they encouraged it. They didn’t care that you knew every line of “Strangers like me,” they did too and sang along. This place was happiness, hope, forgiveness, and love.

Don’t Think About It

Her eyes dash about each way

Her lips start to move


there is nothing to say

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Who am I?

Isn’t that a question we all ask our selves?

I am a writer(am I any good?), singer, figure skater, horse back rider(western style), an artist(well I can’t draw or paint or anything involving art but I try), a swimmer, a runner, an idiot, a genius, a bad speller, lover of history, hater of war, vegetarian, geek, cello player(though not very well), debater, mock trial person, and so many other things.

But these still don’t answer my question.

Who am I?

I am the girl who sings in the hallways, annoying people out of their minds. The girl who is so scared about falling back into the old me, the person who didn’t think, just did, the person who gave up herself to fit in. Yes, I get it, hearing me sing is annoying but if I don’t am I denying who I am? The girl who wants to sing and probably has the closest thing to living a real life musical? But if I try to be myself too much am I really being myself?

But these things still don’t answer my question


There is no answer to my question.

I am me. I change, I grow, I learn, over thinking it is part of being me, pretending to be who I am not is also part of being me, trying too hard to show the world who I am is part of being me.

In short

I am free

to be

who ever

I want

to look into

that mirror

to see.

To be a writer

So I hear you want to write

but I must warn you

to write is to give a piece of yourself up

for people to judge as they will

to write is to show the world your thoughts

how it is that you think

To explain your weaknesses to a foe

To let the world know the truth


To write is to share

a dream with many

To release the sorrows

you hold deep inside

To find yourself

To overcome fear

To write is to give up boundaries

Lose the ties that hold you here

It is a chance to be free